Seven Eleven
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: How-Mark-met-Maureen. Purely by chance, the girl that Mark's been staring at appears at a local convenience store at the same time as him. Teen AU. Markeen. Oneshot.


**A/N: Markeen is giving me so many feels lately, like what… I don't even know. I guess I'm just having shipper heart. It's fickle. :P If Michelle is reading at least she has a weakness too, right? So I'm doing someone some good. Bleh. Anyways. I felt this was necessary so um here. Enjoy!**

Disclaimer: _RENT still isn't mine… still… forever… always. Yep. That should cover it._

**Seven Eleven**

He doesn't recall her name but suddenly she's there, ten feet from him, and he has to duck down behind the shelf of candy bars he'd been examining to avoid being seen.

_Shit! Don't look don't look…_

Slowly, timidly, he peeks up above it again- it's a good thing he's short, or bending down like this would be hell on his thigh muscles- just to be sure. But it's true. It's her. The girl he's been staring at, "mooning over"- at least, that's what Roger has been calling it, voice full of his usual condescending sarcasm- for the past month.

It's hard not to stare. Actually, it's impossible. She's stunning. Mark supposes that he's probably just a hopeless romantic, using words like "stunning" and "gorgeous" and "beautiful" instead of "hot, instead of "pretty" or- like Roger- "fuckable." He knows that, at the very least, he's nothing like the rest of the pigs at his high school. He's _sophisticated._

Well, she is kind of hot. He'll give them that. But still!

And how else was he supposed to describe her, really? She was flawless. Realistically he guesses that it's just the distance getting to his head- he's never been this close to her, never been able to clearly see the exact shade of her chestnut hair which curls just so at the ends, wavy and thick and framing her face just right. He's never seen her smooth, creamy skin in this light, in this clarity- he'd thought that maybe she was just as pimply as him, as the rest of the sixteen year old population, up close but no, she's just as perfect as he'd imagined. Just enough makeup to make her look impossibly more mature, unapproachable-

As though she hadn't been that before. He snorted at himself, shoulders slumping. Who was he, Mark Cohen, tech geek extraordinaire, to be lusting after such a perfect specimen? Surely she was saving herself for men of a higher caliber.

Or maybe just men in general. Sometimes Mark had to remind himself that sixteen didn't qualify for manhood, that he was just a boy, just a child- or maybe that was just his father's lectures. He couldn't tell and it didn't really matter.

Quite frankly, she was out of his league.

Licking his lips nervously, Mark returned to poring over the candy selection with his heart in his throat. He knew that he wasn't going to do anything. He knew he wasn't going to make a move. Logically. But, for once, logic had eluded him in the face of his own raging hormones. The slap of her flip flops on the tile echoes in the mostly silent shop as she examines the contents of the first fridge from the door, standing on her tiptoes to read the label on one of the cola cans.

_Maybe I should talk to her…_

No! Mark shook his head frantically, crumpling and re-crumpling a five dollar bill in his hand. He hadn't imagined when he'd wandered up to the nearest Seven Eleven on foot this sunny August evening that he would run into the current object of his obsession, and it wasn't good for him to entertain these sort of idiotic ideas. It was just like when he indulged Roger- or worse, when he let Roger get him drunk and then indulged himself in all sorts of inappropriate behavior.

He can still remember the mortification he had felt being dragged home by an officer for public nudity. Those poor people at the diner… He hadn't been sober, of course, but that was hardly an excuse that he was going to use with an officer and both of his parents when he was only fourteen and obviously far too young to be going out and getting drunk with his friends.

Roger had thought it was hilarious. Mark still hadn't banished his own guilt. Sometimes… God, sometimes he really hated Roger.

That, however, was different. He wasn't drunk now. He wasn't even strung out on caffeine like he usually was, and he had his camera attached to a strap around his neck to keep him grounded, aware of himself. He can't help having these _ideas_, of course, but he can prevent himself from acting on them.

She doesn't seem at all aware that he's watching her, periodically looking up to be sure of her placement, her movements, the way her back curves as she reaches up to grab one of the frosty bottles of Coke from the top shelf of the fridge. She doesn't seem aware of him at all, actually, or maybe she just doesn't care. It could be either. Mark was used to being invisible; he was also used to being blatantly ignored. She puts the bottle back after a moment's deliberation and shakes her head, murmuring something to herself, her full, pouty lips moving as though she's talking to herself.

Mark paused. Was she? Talking to herself, he means. If she was, it was almost a relief. He had thought that he was the only person who did that- at least, the only sane person.

More curious now, his eyes followed her as she sashayed to the Slushee machine, fingers brushing each of the levers as she reads the labels to herself. Her eyes are brown… Mark had expected something more exotic, maybe violet, and he's sure that he's never liked brown eyes until these ones came along. They're different somehow. He's convinced himself. They're not brown- they're caramel. Chocolate. Something else equally delicious and silky and perfect. Perfect just like her.

He is hopeless, isn't he? Absolutely daft to be even considering it. But already his feet have, of their own volition, begun forcing him into this sure-to-be-awkward social interaction.

She's in the midst of selecting a cup, hand resting delicately on the cherry lever, and he's distracted before he can even speak by the length of her eyelashes. Her eyelashes, because if he looks down and allows himself to stare at _other_ parts of her he's going to get himself into trouble. Just like the table dancing and the stripping and the officer and Roger's raucous, obnoxious laughter haunting him for months, years afterwards…

"Oh!" When she turns back around and sees him she has a small heart attack, eyebrows shooting into her hair. "Oh, I didn't see you- I'm sorry!" Her laugh is contagious; his is awkward and he hates himself more every second he stands here, still toying with his money just to keep his hands busy.

"H-hi," he manages to stutter, smiling weakly. It's probably crooked. He's tried so many times in a mirror to make his expressions look right, twisting his mouth and scrunching his nose, but no matter what he does he still looks like a freak. His smile is never straight, he uses too much teeth or not enough, and God but he could sit here internally listing his own physical faults all day long and he would still be standing here, unsure of what to say to this beautiful girl in front of him with the five freckles on her nose and shit, he can't-

Thankfully she takes charge, tilting her head and smiling at him brilliantly. "Am I in your way?" Her hair swings around her face as she edges away from the machine for him and he scrambles to answer, shaking his head.

"Oh- O-oh no, no I'm fine I-" It's futile, he realizes that much, so he just sighs and goes along with it, grabbing a small neon cup and filling it absently, murmuring shyly, "Thanks."

"No problemo. I'm just picky." Giggling, she runs her fingers through her hair and is it just him or did she look him up and down appraisingly. "What was your name again-?"

"M-Mark. Cohen." He winces as he stumbles over the familiar syllables, wondering how socially retarded he sounds from her perspective, but she doesn't seem at all put off by his obvious trouble speaking the English language. She looks amused, actually- he wonders if that's a good sign but he's momentarily distracted by blue slush overflowing onto his hand, cursing under his breath and setting the cup down, grabbing a fistful of napkins to clean himself off. As he's licking at his hand, already dismayed by how sticky it's going to be by the time he finds his way home, her grin widens.

"Well, M-Mark," she mocks lightly, reaching up to lightly tap her fingers on his shoulder, eyes glinting mischievously. "I'm M-Maureen. How do you do?"

"Great!" Flushed, his voice cracks and he hardly even cares, heart thundering- _she's touching me! She's fucking touching me!-_ at a rate that he's sure is going to induce a fatal heart attack very, very soon. "So great. Um."

And then he runs out of words and he has a moment of panic before realizing that, again, she's taken his words and run with them, already launching into a spiel about her own day which he misses the first part of, still dazed and smiling like an idiot.

"I was just treating myself for doing so good at my audition this morning- you know what play we're doing this year? Romeo and Juliet. I know, it's typical, but I bet you anything I get Juliet. I swear. I knocked them all out at the auditions! I mean, I practiced for so long, I really _deserve_ the part at this point-"

Mark had never been especially good with words but she wasn't leaving him much time to respond to anything she said, and maybe that was why he liked her so much. Could he have instinctively known, perhaps, that this girl would be the perfect balance? Standing next to her he had never felt more incompetent, but as they walked to the register side by side he sipped at his Slurpee and watched her, waving her hands around as she talked, eyes bright with excitement, and felt a thrill shoot through him. _Stunning…_

Yeah, he doesn't come out of his shell very often, but she doesn't look like she's about to force him to. He pays for his Slurpee, and then after a moment he pays for hers as well. She flashes him a grateful smile and ruffles his shock of orange-blonde hair that he's so self-conscious about and lets him follow her out into the sunshine, meandering around and towards the woods where it's quiet and cool and oh-so-secluded.

He feels his eyes widen with an anticipation he rarely feels, usually too caught up in worrying to really enjoy any daring escapades. This, though… her. She's sort of worth it.

"Hey, d'you wanna come over to my house? My mom's getting pizza," she abruptly asks, turning to look at him with wide, hopeful eyes, and how is he supposed to say no to that? Dumbly nodding, lightheaded with his own luck, his chest tightens at her smile and all of a sudden her arms are wrapped around him, squeezing him tightly, and he squeaks as her babbling continues.

"Oh, good! My mom's gonna love you-"

Mark listens with half of his brain, the other half whirring with possibilities and adjectives and wedding plans because you can never be too prepared for that sort of thing and Maureen is kind of perfect, and if things go the way they look like they're going to it's plausible that he's never going to remove his arm from around her waist like it's somehow ended up.

Despite himself, he feels a goofy grin spreading over his face, taking another slurp of his drink.

Roger was going to have a cow.


End file.
